Abide with me
by junejuly15
Summary: How does Sherlock cope with all the pain he sees as a consulting detective? Contrary to what some people believe he's not a machine, he's just as human as the next man and feels and hurts just like anybody. Here's a possible scenario that I wanted to describe after I heard Benedict Cumberbatch sing 'Abide with me' (link on my profile page) - JOHNLOCK - Oneshot


**How does Sherlock cope with all the horror and pain he sees as a consulting detective? Contrary to what some people believe he's not a machine, he's just as human as the next man and feels and hurts just like anybody.**

**Here's a possible scenario that I wanted to describe after I heard Benedict Cumberbatch sing **_**Abide with me**_** (I recommend strongly you listen to him, you can find the **_**link on my profile page**_**).**

**This is a short one-shot, enjoy reading! **

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**Abide with me**

_Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea_

_Come, friends of sinners, thus abide with me_

Sung in a low, slightly breaking, but melodious voice the well-known words floated through the dusty air, mingling with the tiny dust motes dancing in the last rays of sunshine falling through the living room windows. John felt like an intruder as it was obvious to him that this song was sung not to be listened to. It was sung under his breath, low, but very insistent and almost desperate.

_Thou on my head on early youth didst smile_

_And though rebellious and perverse meanwhile_

Sherlock had closed down, shut down all interaction with him and the world this blasted afternoon, had refused to talk, to listen, had shunned his touch. He had not spoken a word since they had returned home an hour ago.

A case had taken them to Battersea early today, to a run-down, shabby and depressingly dirty semi near the abandoned power station. John gulped thickly when he felt bile rising again in his throat, a companion of the images flashing vividly across his mind. Those of a tiny hand, smeared with dried blood, a face painted with the horrors it had seen, a mother who had been beyond help. A wailing child desperately clinging to her mother's hand.

Two WPCs had been necessary to hold her back, and Sherlock who had seen unimaginable things in his life, had become stony-faced and silent. He had given Lestrade whatever he could deduce from the crime scene, had been professional about it, but John had sensed the turmoil and the pain in him.

_Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee_

_On to the close, oh Lord. Abide with me_

John leaned against the wall in their hall and listened – ever so often there was a pause before he would start singing the same lines again, his voice beautiful, but filled with a sadness which was tugging at John's heart, making him close his eyes, rooting him to the spot. The feeling of being an intruder increased because John knew that Sherlock would not want to be disturbed now, going through what he saw as a cleansing process. It was like a mantra, singing those eternal words, this soothing melody, meant to cleanse, meant to heal.

_Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea_

_Come, friend of sinners, thus abide with me_

John sat down on the stairs, not willing to disturb, but not prepared to leave him alone either. He had never heard Sherlock sing before and hearing this hymn sung in his low baritone, breathy, yet powerful, was like a spell that rooted him to the spot. Playing the violin at odd hours was Sherlock's usual way of coping with emotional stress or with solving a problem. This was new and the fact that he, a very skeptical man, certainly not a devout believer, even less a church-goer, was singing this hymn was very touching indeed.

_Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee … _Sherlock had started singing again, but then he abruptly stopped. 'John?'

John cleared his throat before he answered. 'Yes?'

'John – there's no need to crouch on the stairs in the hall. Come to me –' John dipped his chin and slightly winced when he got up. He turned the corner and was about to walk through the kitchen and on to their bedroom when he heard an uncharacteristic '- please' follow this demand. John smiled and continued his way into their bedroom where he found him standing at the window, looking out into the fading day.

'You heard me?' Sherlock inquired, his voice steady, but still devoid of its usual power and sarcasm.

'Yes,' John nodded. 'Yes, I did Sherlock.' John crossed the room and stood behind him, in close, intimate proximity. He didn't know if his touch was welcome, but he trusted his instincts and slipped his hands around his narrow waist before he let his head sink against his back. Sherlock's body tensed, John touching him out of the blue still had the power to surprise and startle him, but then his shoulders slumped and he enveloped John's small hands in his own, gently circling his thumb over John's warm and soft skin.

'I felt the need, John. After all we have seen today …' He hesitated, the face of the crying little girl dancing insistently in front of his mind's eye and he blinked to chase the image away. His voice sounded brittle when he continued. 'I _had_ to get it out. Strangely enough I could not face the violin today, so I remembered this hymn. I had to learn it by heart when I was a child, never liked it much, but somehow it resurfaced today.'

'I would not have taken you for the religious type, Sherl,' John said, nestling comfortably up to his back, enjoying the closeness after the rift that had appeared this afternoon.

'Doesn't mean I cannot appreciate the healing power of a hymn, John.'

Sherlock lightly stroked John's hand, indicating that he wanted to turn around and face him and John loosened his grip. Sherlock tore his gaze away from the window and slowly turned around to fix his eyes on John, willing to read his face, to overwrite the horrid images of today with something pleasant. He was looking for reassurance, for steadiness, for comfort. John, who knew Sherlock like no one else, smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly. The corners of Sherlock's lips curled in that characteristic way of his in response. Cupping John's face he kissed him, lightly, tenderly, and this kiss marked a kind of closure to that horrendous afternoon.

John knew that Sherlock would neither say nor do anymore than that, would neither explain himself nor his actions, and they both knew that it wasn't necessary and that they could move on from here.

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**A/N** Thank you for reading! Your feedback is very much appreciated ;-D

JJ


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